The Windows to the Soul
by TheVenturer
Summary: Upon first seeing each other, neither John Watson nor Sherlock Holmes thinks twice about their feelings; they're strangers, never to see each other again... till they become flat mates. The thoughts and feelings left unsaid are always the most fascinating... Alt. Meeting, follows season 1 loosely for now. Rated M for language & eventual slash. Lovely Johnlock! ON HIATUS
1. A First Glimpse, Not Boring

**Authors note: Here it is: my very first Fanfiction, ever. **

**I'm giddy, gleeful and gasping with fright. I've always had a passion for Sherlock Holmes and for writing but it wasn't till the BBC series Sherlock (be still my beating heart…) that the two smashed headlong into each other. With a beautiful addiction to Johnlock, my love for romance as well as mystery is now here for your pleasure! Please feel free to read, review, follow and favorite! Especially the review part, I hunger, practically starve for criticism.**

**The rating will remain M for swearing but later this rating will include some smut.**

**This story is Beta'd by the exceedingly wonderful, forever knowledgeable Breathing is over-rated. Thank you, again, for the millionth time.**

_**EDITED: This chapter needs editing, I know. Don't give up if you don't like it, the rest are way better! Just need to find the time to sit down with this and not cry... love, Angie/V**_

**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, all are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not, sadly, own Sherlock that is the property of both the creators and the BBC.**

"_I'm fine, here all alone, this is almost like a home. Take this blood, straight from my arms, and tell me just where I belong..."_

_-X's by I Kill Giants_

**Chapter I: A First Glimpse; Not Boring**

**John POV**

I have no bloody idea how I allowed Harry to talk me into this.

Support groups for female alcoholics are supposed to be attended by the recovering female alcoholics, not their male siblings. But Harry had gotten the flu and practically begged me-in that weak, sickly voice she knows I can't refuse-to take her place for the night; missing a meeting would result in a metaphoric "step-back" in progress towards recovery. So she had proceeded in attaining permission from both her sponsor and her proctor to use me as a stand-in. Marvelous.

"You may meet someone," she had suggested encouragingly.

"A cute recovering-alcoholic woman, I'm sure. I bet they'll love me, the war-battered limping man," I huffed in reply, making it clear that I really didn't want to do this. Harry's frown immediately followed my self-deprecating words.

"You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself _sometime_." She chided, while her words held no malice they were certainly filled with annoyance.

I had heard all this many times since moving in with Harry, she didn't seem to like the way I talked about myself. To be honest, tensions had been getting high and I'd only been living under her roof the three weeks since I'd returned from the war. Though I had been looking for a flat of my own, London was an expensive place and it was not surprising that very little was affordable on an army pension. Harry had been kind in letting me live with her for the time being but nonetheless the drab, cramped guest room was on the verge of suffocating me. Feels like I've been cooped up there for ages and the nightmares certainly didn't help…

Not that going to a support group for alcoholic women was my idea of being out-and-about.

I was starved for something. But that something has kept just out of my reach.

As I entered the facility I walked right into the smell of bad coffee mixed with not-so-subtle hints of sweat and cigarette-smoke. I was then greeted by _Hello-my-name-is_ Samantha, a short woman with hair that framed her wrinkled face, broken only by thick glasses. Her frumpy purple dress had me thinking, correctly, "proctor". She quickly gave me my own _Hello-my-name-is _badge, on which I promptly wrote 'John', and ushered me to a seat within the circle. My eyes moved around me to inspect the supporters'. You had your stereotypical alcoholics, if one can think of any. From my seat they included the snobbish movie-star type, the continually mourning gothic young woman, a few older woman crying unattractively, and…

As I reached the lot which circled directly ahead of me, my wandering eyes stopped as if they had crashed into a brick wall.

Outside the circle sat a man, leisurely in posture but his eyes were agile in his own cat-like inspection of the lot in front of what could be referred to as his territory. It was easy to tell he wasn't there as a stand in like myself. His long over-coat was wrapped round his even longer frame, giving the impression he could leave at any moment for something more important and he wouldn't be bothered what you thought of it. His black suit coat rested over a white button-up again in that casual and uncaring manner, his dress trousers thin, outlining still long and still thin legs… he radiated mystery and dared someone to acknowledge it.

Even for me, who has never dabbled in anything that isn't worthy of the label 'Vanilla', he was… endearing. Fascinating. And I had only studied his clothing and posture so far.

His face walked the ledge just shy of falling into alien in appearance, striking and precisely featured, contrasting with dark, curled and unruly hair. The cheekbones and bowed upper lip gave the air of a dangerous romantic who would charm you with the lips in a warm embrace, then slash you with the bones as he turned away. But the eyes are what really disarmed me. They seemed to never stop moving over the people which sat seemingly oblivious to him, they were like the eyes of a fly on the wall. Forever observant.

Then they rested on me, and narrowed.

He seemed to do a quick sweep of me, inspecting from head to toe, taking in my appearance as if there was a neon sign above my head reading, "ODD ONE OUT". His eyes rested for a split second on my aluminum cane (why did I suddenly feel the need to hide it; why did I feel embarrassed?) then they met my own.

They were a clear light colour, at least, that's what they looked like. It was difficult to tell from this distance. If I had been asked to guess I'd have said silver or a pale, clear blue. Simply because it'd have been as unique a feature as the rest. He looked both 12 and 30+ all at the same time.

We held one another's gaze for a few seconds before my ears contacted my brain, telling me someone was beginning to speak. I broke away from the cat-alien-man's stare and tried to focus on the meeting at hand. I was eventually introduced by _Hello-my-name-is_ Samantha, and I waved with a tight smile on my face, trying not to show how out of place I felt. My eyes eventually came to rest on the man-boy and I found him to be looking back. I tried not to think about how his eyes only seemed to stop moving when they were focused on me…

The rest of the meeting was a blur. I was asked to speak about my and Harry's childhood, which was no real story. I didn't talk much and to be honest I didn't really listen either. I was, quite simply, bored. With everything really.

Except the man I had just gotten a first glimpse at. And I didn't even know his name.

**Sherlock POV**

Is this _really_ what people do? Sit around and pour their hearts out in the form of liquid self-pity whilst trying to top the others bad experiences under the impression of alcohol? Waste. Bloody waste. The only reason I'm here is the case, the _work_, there is a killer targeting alcoholic woman, always from a different group whether it's anonymous or private such as this one, always those who have quite recently become sober. All three of the current victims had been younger, unmarried, previously heavy drinkers. All poisoned in their drinks. Could be jealousy killings, perpetrator can't bring herself (obviously a woman) to stop the consumption and kills those who can… one of currently 8 possibilities.

At least I had convinced that Samantha woman with the ugly, ill-fitting dress [recently gained weight due to a high caloric intake, probably symptom of newly developed drug habit, also visible in her constant movement and rather ghastly complexion] that I was inspecting the group for my sister who had recently 'lost her way' and turned to alcoholism. Simple lies are often the most effective, especially when dealing with simple people.

I had inspected each woman sitting in the circle before me, careful to look sorrowful and empathetic whenever anyone looked at me, observing for anything either interesting or suspicious. A widower, an unhappy wife, a nurse, a frat-girl, etc. Each woman is as dull as the one before. Either the killer is very good at hiding or she is not here. I expect it is the latter as there is not a single thing worthy of notice about any of them. Any, stave one.

One who really isn't a woman at all…?

He watches at me whilst I inspect his clothes [sensible, not solely for style, comfortable; red cardigan over off-white button shirt, all well fitted. Worn dark jacket resting on back of chair, jeans are worn but nicely casual; shoes are light brown and scuffed, more so on the right than the left suggests a limp; _not _boring], his appearance [short, straight, ashen blonde hair, thin and athletic but not lanky, exceedingly straight posture, uncomfortable position yet procured out of respect; not _exceedingly_ boring], his demeanor [army through and through, based upon the tan either Afghanistan or Iraq; not _entirely_ boring] and the superfluous cane resting on his right side [psychosomatic, obviously; _certainly_ not boring]. When our eyes meet I find myself narrowing mine in frustration. This is certainly not the killer I'm looking for yet I am picking him apart piece by piece; and finding nothing really conclusive to his motives nor his life, besides its war ridden past. His capturing dark blue eyes hold my attention in the strangest manner, as if he can find all of me simply in my eyes (impossible really, the eyes are _not _actually a window to the soul).

Eventually his gaze falls from my own and he does introduce himself as John, as his nametag indeed states (_idiot_, of course he has a nametag). Such a simple name really, not unique at all. But I can find nothing truly boring about him. At least not the observable surface. Which is not an ever day occurrence. Hardly even an every week occurrence… I want to stay and actually initiate social engagement with this man, which is an extremely uncommon thought to pass through my mind I admit, but the case must dominate my attention always if it is to be solved.

After the mindless nonsense that is group therapy ends we all move on to a social free-time before finally being set free to, gladly, part ways. I think briefly of the man with the deep-sea eyes but the simple act of unconsciously remembering he was here is a tad… unusual. Not the type of unusual that I can deal with during a case. So I do my duty and politely thank the proctor of the meeting and turn to leave the facility. But before I can I find myself looking back at literally the only other man in the room.

He is chatting with the ill-clothed proctor woman, his side to me. He is obviously done with the conversation but is unwaveringly polite. A fault, in my opinion, but those _eyes_ of his, those deeply fascinating iris', are reflecting an unrestful look, a look I know entirely too well. Boredom.

_John_.

Such a simple name, commonplace really, for someone who is really… not boring.

I will be seeing him again.

**You know what to do now, lovely reader. Praise or problems; credit or critique; love or loathing, review and tell me! Thanks for reading, please continue to!**

**Forever yours,**

**Angie/The Venturer**


	2. A First Encounter, Surprise

**Authors ****note****: ****Welcome****to**** the ****second chapter! I'm updating early cuz' I couldn't wait. As always, thank you for reading! Please feel free to tell me if this story is the bee's knees or if it's a complete failure; I'm dying to know!**

**Thanks to the singularly sensational beta Breathingisoverrated for her continued support and expertise.**

**Also thanks to starrysumernights, she is fantastic and if you haven't read her work… what're you doing with your life?! Thanks for the support, it fills my heart with glee :)**

**This will now follow the pilot episode BUT in a cool way I hope you will like! **

**Warning: Language! Avert thine eyes, young ones… or don't. Regardless, you have been warned.**

**Disclaimer: I still do not own anything. The wish I made on that shooting star has yet to come true…**

"_There's a hole, in my soul._

_Can you fill it, can you fill it? __"_

_-__Flaws__by__ Bastille_

**Chapter II: A First ****Encounter****; Surprise**

**John POV**

During the few days following that night at the support meeting, Harry had improved in health, thanks to my strict orders to drink the tea (not the alcohol) and take the medicine (not the recreational sort), and was back on her feet. Which was more than I could say for myself. The nightmares were getting worse, every night it was the same; the burning sand, a blazing sun, a gunshot. I'd always wake up in a cold sweat after that, my shoulder twinging painfully. Each time I tried to sleep I was shot over and over again… my sleep schedule was taking a severe beating and I had grown tired beyond belief.

The therapist I was forced to visit by the army had me start a blog, 'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson,' which she had insisted would help me cope with the 'coming back' to civilization. Could be a great idea, I suppose, except nothing ever happens to me. Or at least that's what I had thought this morning.

The morning went by without anything unusual occurring. I followed my normal routine; a bit of exercising followed by a spot of breakfast (an apple and tea). When I had checked the fridge for something to eat most of what I found contained alcohol, hard liquor, fruity mixes, etc. I blinked at the vast stores of alcohol, shocked by its sheer amount. I had honestly thought that I had gotten through to Harry, that she was on the mend. Now I could see that I was wrong. Clearly the meetings weren't helping my sister, nor was my insistent pestering. Something snapped inside me and I knew that I had to leave.

I swore that within the week I would find a sodding flat.

After a crowded train journey into London and a difficult hike of the big cities streets, I limped through a park I used to visit often back in my university years. I walked stiffly, leaning against the aluminium cane firmly held in my right hand. As I reached a bench about half way around the park which I used to sit on in the evenings of my youth to watch the world go by, a plump, slightly familiar man hollered after me. It took a moment for me to sift through my old memories to realise that I was staring at the face of an old mate from university, Mike Stamford.

We got on chatting over a coffee at The Criterion. Sitting at the bench in the park, he mentioned living conditions and I reminded him I was currently living with Harry but am in need of a flat. Though I didn't describe the need as 'dire', it truly was becoming so. He told me I should simply find a flat mate, seeing as how I can't pay rent on an army pension (my lack of a job was becoming a nagging, annoying reality). When I half-joked and said "who would want me as a flat mate?" with a thin-lipped smirk, he scoffed.

Then he looked at me smiling, stating that I was, coincidentally, the second person to tell him that today. I thought it was a certainly lucky coincidence. I asked who the first was and if he wouldn't mind introducing us. He agreed wholeheartedly.

He suggested visiting this colleague of his right now, and as we got up and began walking, I thought things were finally coming together, finally beginning to get 'better'. I should have been suspicious when instead of telling me the name of this potential flat mate or really anything about the bloke, Mike simply said, "You'll see."

**Sherlock POV**

It wasn't like that killer of alcoholic woman was a genius, or anything of the sort really. Certainly not a proper genius. It took only two days after that tedious support group meeting I had unwittingly attended to solve that case, and now it was nearly a week later. Since then no cases had caught my fancy, though there was a series of suicides (supposed suicides) which Detective Inspector Lestrade had told the press he had his 'best men' on. _Wrong_. As usual. And I had no problem making my opinion known to him about that… and everyone else in the press conference.

But those 'suicides'… Those were interesting, to be sure. However; Lestrade had made his thoughts on my involvement in this particular case quite clear. He was not happy about my little 'stunt' with the phones and as such had decided to bar me from the entire operation. Of course, I could solve the case without the police realising, being rather skilled on the 'breaking and entering' front, however that would defeat the point entirely. Which meant that I was left with two options: to apologise and beg to be allowed onto the case or wait till the stubborn DI came to his senses and admitted that he needed my expertise. The former was never going to happen (the authorities were the ones to beg, not I) so I decided to busy myself with experiments while Scotland Yard fumbled about, no doubt making a mess of every crime scene.

In the past few days I had spent most of my time at either 'Barts or my home lab, doing the exact same work at both. Though the morgue gave me considerably more to work with. Recently the effects of bruising on corpses post mortem has been quite an intriguing study (also quite satisfying to my… frustrations due to boredom). Yesterday I had used the wrench, the rifle and the book end. Today I would start with the riding crop then study the tissue damage of all four.

Thus far my day had been tediously boring. I had had a surprisingly pleasant run-in this morning from an associate of mine, though I suppose he would call himself an acquaintance, Mike Stamford. He was pleasant enough, asking me questions about my work (most boring, some not) then moving to what I supposed could be categorized as 'small-talk'. He asked about my living conditions, mainly because he had just moved house and so was currently fixated on the topic. I had replied that I lived alone in a small flat, Mike was practically bursting with sentimentality and seemed to believe that singularity was no good for anyone. He asked why I hadn't sought out a flatmate, under the guise that it would help with the rent. Stupid question really, everyone who spent more than five minutes with me grew to treat me with disgust.

Though I had indeed interviewed a few men in hopes of finding someone to help me afford the living space they were all immensely boring. Terrifyingly boring. I told Mike that I must be a hard person to find a flat mate for, to which he replied I just needed to find the one that 'fit-the-bill,' as he so eloquently put it.

He was quite amiable but I had work to do, work I'd much rather get on with than_ socialize_. We exchanged a few more pleasantries before he started taking my ignoring him in stride. He and I shook hands and with that he said his farewells, leaving me to my work. Finally.

After doing my experiment with the riding crop (Molly tried making jokes and asking me to coffee, working around her has become increasingly trying to my patience) I hurried to the lab to study the samples and run the appropriate tests. The experiments had yielded results which were, in most cases, identical or very close to what I had expected to fine. As I was rechecking the samples and recording my observations, I noticed to my surprise-not that I let it show-that Mike Stamford was walking _back_ into the lab.

Even more surprising was _who_ he walked in with.

_John._

**John POV**

_Sherlock Holmes._

He seemed to be a complete and utter arse. And bloody fascinating, too.

But before actually meeting him, I was completely unsuspecting. As Mike and I walked into 's Hospital I was beginning to think this potential flat mate was a fellow doctor, which could have been interesting. I was slightly afraid it would turn out to be a psychologist. Mike had taken me up past both the hospital and psychology wings to a floor lined with labs, rooms full of things I had honestly no idea how to use. Give me a scalpel and an open body and I'm at ease. Chemicals were never of any interest to me.

Mike was looking into the labs for the man I had no clue about. I had succeeded in badgering some information out of him, and he made what sounded like a warning that I was being introduced to a very… individual person. He called him a man who had a 'passion for definite and exact knowledge,' whatever that meant. I figured that meant this person was someone smart, an intellectual. Good, brilliant! That's always a good quality._ Little did I know…_

As he looked into one of the windows Mike gave a triumphant "Ah," and with a short knock he went in. I followed, steeling myself for my first glimpse of this prospect flatmate. While Mike held the door open for me I glanced in the window and nearly stopped.

The only man in the room, hunched over a petri dish at the moment, was the same statuesque man, the same mysteriously dressed man who had been present at the support meeting just days earlier. Though he was now dressed down to only the tight fitting suit-coat and slick white shirt. Wearing both like an annoying sexy God.

He quickly glanced my way and I saw his eyes moving in that speedy manner, and while I had no doubt he recognized me as much as I him, he made no indication of it.

I was still trying to get over the shock and utter coincidence of it. Avoiding eye contact with the tall pale man seemed to be my best option while I got a grip on myself. Realising too late that I had been stood in the doorway a bit too long, I started walking slowly into the rooming, making some joke to Mike (whom I had just remembered was also in the room) about how things had changed since our day. It wasn't hard, for the first few seconds, to ignore the man at the lab bench since he just went on with his work. Suddenly and without warning the tall man asked for- or rather demanded- Mike's mobile. I glance at him, his face almost glowing in the lab table lights, like a sculpture whose artist had an obsession with cheekbones and angles and shadows. As soon as I realised the thoughts I was having I grabbed them by the scruff and pushed them down. Deep, deep down.

Mike tells the man he has left his mobile in his coat and with that the taller man goes back to his work. But I am really bloody tired of being ignored like this. It takes me a few seconds to speak, God knows why, but eventually I get the simple words out. "Uh, here, take mine," I say to him, holding out my phone.

He looks at me for a second with an unreadable expression. "Oh… thank you," he says as he walks over to me. He is close and his eyes are on me as he takes the phone gently from my hand. I can see their colour now, an icy light blue tinted green, like… like nothing I had ever seen, really. I'd say mint ice cream, but the childish description of those distractively intense eyes was laughable.

Turning from me with a lingering side-long glance and unlocked the phone with one flick of his thumb, he began typing quickly as soon as he had the text interface open. Mike introduced me but the man made no acknowledgment of it. Then he asked something completely out of the blue, something that had me setting my jaw tightly and narrowing my eyes…

**Quick fun disclaimer: Mike's description for Sherlock which reads, **'passion for definite and exact knowledge' **is actually written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, an observation made by John within the mystery **_**A Scandal in Bohemia**_**. I am a huge fan of the original mysteries and may use more lines in the future (though all credit will be given where it is due!).**

**Please review!**

**Forever yours,**

**A/V**


	3. A Small Taste of the Thrill, Not Boring

**I'd like to thank all who have followed or even gone as far as to favorite this story of mine. Every time the numbers go up I get happier and more confident, so I thank you all from the bottom of my heart; you have my eternal gratitude.**

**This story, fortunately, has a fantastic beta, 'breathing is over-rated'! Check her out!**

**Warning: Strong language. No smutty goodness yet… Patience, grasshopper.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes nor do I own any dialogue taken from the original show… *sniffle***

_"__Oh and if there's any love in me, don't let it show._

_Oh and if there's any love in me, don't let it grow, don't let it grow."_

_-Shape of my heart by Noah and The Whale_

**Chapter III: A Small Taste of the Thrill; Unforgettable**

**Sherlock POV**

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I can see from the corner of my eye John shuffling uncomfortably as he wonders at the question. I can't suppress the smirk, though I'd never admit how I love this. This teasing. I already know he's not boring and I already know he was brought here for the purpose of discussing a flat, so I may as well have some fun before he decides I'm not worth the headaches just as all the interesting ones before him have.

He looks at me with what I can only think to call suspicion practically written all over his face, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, [_obvious_ trust issues] and says "I'm sorry?" in that begrudgingly polite manner that leaks out of him with every step [_screaming_ army doctor].

I nearly said "don't bore me _now_," but I held my tongue and repeated the question, watching him as he looks to Mike, then his shoes, and shuffles.

"Afghanistan, how did you-", he was obviously going to ask how I knew but I didn't want to bother with my explanations just yet, relishing secretly in the mystery of me was just too tempting. Though I could feel the annoyed, bristled look which was now set strongly on John's face, almost a palpable frustration… it was really quite attractive but that was an observation for another day.

Before he could finish asking his question Molly does the unexpected and walks in exactly when I need her to. I cut John off with a greeting to her, her face seems puzzled for a second and I realize that often I simply ignore her until she says something, as I hand John his mobile back and take the coffee she offers. As I turn my back to John and Molly, the latter takes the hint and leaves. John… well, I can practically feel the questions, the annoyance radiating off him still. It's like fuel to my fire.

I try the coffee. In no way is it satisfactory, and, as I set it down with a grimace, I ask John how he feels about the violin.

After he watches Molly leave, or rather, watches her rear [speaks to sexual preference or attraction, also may speak to bad relationship choices; it annoys me. _Wait, annoys me?_]. He turns back to me with renewed intensity. "I'm sorry, what?"

Watching him for a few seconds, studying the untrusting look, the cleft in his strong chin which emerges when he sets his jaw… I've now gotten the feeling John Watson has grown tired of our game…

Not wanting to end this… relationship, I suppose, before it has even begun, I quickly explain to him that I sometimes play the violin while thinking, or go without talking for days on end (though truth be told I've never had another person to talk to on a regular basis). "Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other," I inform him, making an attempt at what I can only hope looks like a smile.

John is obviously confused now, he asks Mike if he has talked to me at all, which is obviously false seeing as how they are just back from lunch with one another. Of course Mike responds as such and John turns back to me and asks not the boring "how did I know" question but a less polite "who said anything about flat mates?"

"I did," I inform him, though really it was obvious. I begin to explain how Mike and I had just this morning talked about flat mates, now he's here. Not hard to piece together. While he thinks on this I gather up the experiment; it'll have to wait. Something more important has seemed to come up.

As John does indeed ask the inevitable "how did you know" question, but I ignore it. Explaining myself is always so tedious… though it honestly does come with a twinge of egotistical satisfaction. I go on telling John we will meet tomorrow morning at the flat, seven in the morning, and a fleeting apology for rushing out; I seem to have left my riding crop in the mortuary.

Almost out the door I find myself turning as John asks if that's it. I already know what he means. His confusion, his annoyance, his slightly amused frustration is plain as day on his face. I move closer to him and study it. Rather than the polite, expressionless military man he was before his face is aglow with emotion, especially the cobalt blue of his eyes, the Barring Sea but with fire brewing underneath. He is attractive, to be sure. Why this observation decides to rear its head right at this moment I am not sure but I stow it away in a corner of the palace for later.

My height and proximity forces me to look slightly down on him, and he meets my eyes squarely without any flicker of hesitation._Good. Would be a terrible shame if he didn't have some sort of spine under all the muscle_, I thought to myself with a smirk.

I give in to temptation, explaining my observations quickly, leaving him in his attractive bewilderment. I leave the details for another day, I'm positive he will have more questions later and I want to leave now in the hope of avoiding completely putting him off.

Just as I am out the door I remember his final two questions pertaining to my name and where we'll be meeting. I lean on the door and look straight at him, into the stormy sea of his eyes; "The names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," and with that I wink at him (I can't resist), say my salutations to Mike, and leave.

I allow myself a satisfied smile. This is certainly going to be fun.

**JOHN POV**

He winked. The fucking wanker winked at me.

It was hard to pinpoint what made me more uncomfortable; the unbelievable fact he knew all those things from simple observation, or the unarguable fact that damned intensity in his eyes as he did it felt like a hammer in the pit of my stomach. A frustratingly pleasing, arousing hammer. I decide to ignore the feeling (for the, oh… third time?). Nothing good can come of it and I'm definitely not going to dwell on it. Definitely. Not.

But as I got home and sat on my bed, I found myself wondering yet again, 'who was this ridiculously smart, observant, attractive (what?! Come on, _focus_) and fascinating man who told me facts about my life I was still trying to come to terms with?' Things no one but I myself was aware of… up till this point. At least I knew his name now. Sherlock Holmes. Weird.

Also, what _did_ Sherlock text?

I checked my sent messages and found what he had sent, to a number I did not recognize, the sentence, or order rather, not making much sense. I was again baffled by the man; and he wasn't even in the room.

Searching him on the laptop seemed to be a good start at finding out more about this _still_ mysterious man. So I Googled "Sherlock Holmes". The first thing that popped up was his website, which I found both bewildering (it seems this feeling was one I needed to start getting used to) and surprisingly amusing. This man obviously had too much time on his hands, experiments and private-eye work. Well, at least he wasn't mundane or domestic. Still, he didn't seem entirely human either.

Looking around my room, I studied the blank walls, the bland bed, the one mockingly small window… I realised just how badly I needed out of here. If I didn't, would go crazy; crazy with boredom, insane in my own silence... Sucking in a deep breath I got into my pajamas, laid softly in my bed, my cane leaning forgotten on the side of the frame.

I decided I would meet this man, this _Sherlock Holmes_ tomorrow. Life wasn't getting any more interesting for me and, though I hated to admit it, Harry was right. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I needed a distraction, from the injuries, the past, the haunting nightmares, from the utter _boredom _I was rutted in.I stared at the stark white ceiling, breathing heavily, deeply, steadily, out of an old, subconscious habit.

Something was _finally _happening to me. That alone gave me a small taste of the thrill I now realised I had missed.

**Sherlock POV**

As I left , a satisfied grin adorned my face. It's not often someone interesting enough for me to actively wish seeing walks in and ends up becoming a potential flat mate. Some_thing_ interesting is always inevitable. Some_one_ interesting is never expected, not by me.

Being a sociopath, albeit a highly functioning one, I do not suffer from the trifle emotions the commonwealth is plagued by. Boredom? Most definitely; Anger? At rare moments; Arousal? Well, I _am_ a human being. But feelings of friendship, of personal attraction, of _love_? No. Never.

Always I had been shunned, first by my brother-because to him, before the awful realization people besides us were inferior, _I _was an idiot-, then when I was forced to socialize I was shunned from my own generation as well. _Sherlock the showoff_. Most of those memories had been, of course, deleted. More space was needed for actual things of importance, but I had left one, to remind me why I am the way I continue to be…

Try as I might to dissuade them, as I walked the crowded afternoon streets of London I found my thoughts being engulfed by the image of John Watson, like he had his own personal gravitation pull. I watched the people around me as they passed me by, trying to find one, any one person that had the same effect as the good doctor. It was evident that none of these dull citizens possessed the same unidentifiable _something_ which John seemed so full of. Many of the people I passed, I could tell their secrets, their fears, their hopes easily just from observing their fingers, their clothing, their hair. John was nothing like that. John was _everything,_ everything that wasn't these mundane people, these wasted vessels whose heads were filled with wasted brains,_weren't_. It was both exhilarating and frustrating that I couldn't read Johns secrets, his fears, his hopes.

I had the nagging feeling that John didn't possess secrets, he didn't have any fears and he had yet to be inspired by life with much hope. While I could, of course, read his overlying troubles easily, his involvement in the war, his psychosomatic limp and more based on his appearance I could not read anymore and I felt that I truly _needed more_ to understand this man. I could not leave anything misunderstood, it felt like failure. I had a worrisome urge to get close to him, and when I thought deeply about the urge I literally felt it in the lower regions of my stomach… was this what… _desire_ felt like? I stopped on the street as I felt it, a disgusted almost snarl-like expression forming on my face. _No… no this will not continue_, I scolded myself. _I cannot risk this John Watson's association because my seemingly extinct sexual urges have decided to rear their ugly heads. This will not do._ Attraction was easy, simple. Noncommittal. Arousal was easily dealt with as well, so easily alleviated manually or forgotten entirely. _Deleted_.

Fear arose that the desire that now lingered within me, for Dr. John Watson, would not be easily deleted.

Walking on into the night of London, I muttered to myself and tried desperately to forget these insignificant feelings for this surprisingly significant man. I swore I would not stop walking that night till I had succeeded.

I didn't stop walking till the next morning when I took the taxi to meet the aforementioned, unforgettable Doctor at 221B Baker Street.

**As always, thanks for reading! Please review, follow, or even favorite! Tell me if I stink, so I may improve. Or tell me I rule so I can jump for joy :D**

**With love,**

**Angie/V**


	4. Fire Ants, Vibrating Wings

**Hello there world. Sorry for the time it took to upload this, both me and my wonderful beta (breathing is over-rated) have been on holiday and I am now attending a summer writers institute to develop my poetry. Updates will remain weekly, but not consistently specific one day. My deepest apologies, but life must go on.**

**Please review, I am but a young writer and I would like to improve myself in any way! Feel free to follow and favorite if it tickles your fancy, I also like to feel confident about my writing and support definitely fills that requirement!**

**Disclaimer: Let me think… **_**Do**_** I own Sherlock? No. No, I don't. Sadly.**

"_How come the sun don't shine on me?  
>I need more. <em>

_You know, you know…"_

_-We Only Attack Ourselves by Funeral Suits_

**Chapter IV: Fire Ants; Vibrating Wings**

**John POV**

Waking up was becoming almost as difficult as falling asleep. Blinking fast and hard, I chased away the build up with my lashes, sweeping it all to the corners of my eyes. The dust floated and danced in front of me, putting on a sort of mockingly happy ballet in the small slit of sunrise which peaked out of the small window. Slowly I am reminded of my body via a stiff leg and an even stiffer shoulder, no doubt the result of a night spent tossing and turning from the dreams infested with sand, shot and sun. I took several deep breaths-chest rising deeply and falling again- trying to maybe steady the rapid beats of my heart. I sat up and rubbed my dusty eyes, with the thin green blanket covering my legs. Legs which had been feeling heavier by the day. Or maybe it was just me not wanting to get up at all. Finally I ordered myself up, thinking, '_okay, here we go,'_ throwing my right leg over the bed with my left.

Resting both my feet on the floor before me, I became aware I was wearing nothing but my pajama bottoms. I must have lost the shirt in the night, often moving unpredictably during my sleep. Sleep was the thing I dreaded most, when I couldn't control myself. I could feel the little control I had was slowly withering away, the tremor in my hand and the grinding pain in both my shoulder and leg never let me forget… But nobody knew, not even Harry. She hadn't been home much to notice, anyhow, as she was always staying over God knows whose house after occupying some bar till closing time. I don't know where she fit in enough time to eat or to sleep… this self-destructive bridge we both had been occupying needed to be burned. At least I was lighting the match on my own side. _I'm moving out soon,_ I thought to myself with a rueful smirk.

A second later though the smirk fell into the shape of a frown and my brow followed downwards. However subconsciously, I had just decided I would move in with Sherlock Holmes; before I had seen the flat itself, before I had even decided truly whether I even _liked_ the man or not… Still, I couldn't stand him up. Not when meeting him, however much I hated admitting it, had been the highlight of my week. A frustrating highlight, but one nonetheless.

Realizing it was already six o'clock, I gripped my cane tightly and hobbled to the bathroom for a shower. It was a quick wash, a habit from the army-any minute wasted was a minute you could be dead- and dressed. Giving myself a quick look in the mirror, I as reminded through my reflection I wasn't getting any younger. With a sigh, I left. However, I did leave a note for Harry on the refrigerator door, in the hopes she just might think of me and worry. Unlikely, but just the act of leaving a note pleased my conscience.

_Harry,_

_Don't know when you'll get this, I'll be out this morning. Looking at a flat share in London. Might be late._

_-John_

With that I left the house, catching a train into London. Getting off the Baker Street station on Allsop PI, I began shuffling towards 221B Baker Street. As I passed strangers, I wondered if I was as obvious to them as I had been to Sherlock; my war history, my sibling troubles and my desperation for a flat mate written on my forehead. He seemed to do it all so quickly, with such bloody accuracy, that it seemed I _must _be terribly transparent to all. Then again, he already knew about both Harry and her drinking habits from that silly alcoholics meeting (why _was_ he there?), but how had he read the war on me, how had he figured I had been stationed at Afghanistan? The man was infuriating and so magnetic, all at the same time. It made my head hurt.

Turning the corner onto the street in question I could see 221B, sitting right next to a small café which had a faded red tent-sign reading "Speedy's". Probably owned by the landlord-or lady even- hopefully the food would at least be edible… quick takeaway is always good… I let out a nervous breath and checked my watch. _6:55. Right, well, better early than late_, I supposed. As I turned to try knocking, a taxi drove quickly to the curb and out popped the absurdly attractive Mr. Holmes.

"Hello," he greeted me, paying the cabbie.

"Ah, hello Mr. Holmes," I return, awkwardly.

He corrects me with a small smile, "Sherlock, please."

Still sporting the same posh outfit from yesterday, it seemed he hadn't changed the night before. His hair was windswept and unruly, the dark brown curls seemed to bounce as his legs bounded. Even with the white shirt slightly wrinkled, the suit-coat sitting awkwardly to the left, his dress was just as deceivingly charming. The long over-coat he seemed to never leave without swept low as he came up next to me at the door.

Trying my luck at small talk seemed a lost cause with this man; I complimented the location of the flat, assumed it was expensive and Sherlock went right on to say the landlady owed him a favor because he had helped when her husband was up for execution in America. Oh no, it wasn't that he got the husband _off. _He clarified that he had indeed "ensured it". I searched his face in confusion, but I could find no joking, just the unabashed honesty in his smile. _Oh God, what am I getting into? _I looked back behind me, wondering if it was too late to turn back.

And I knew it was. No, not because the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had just opened the door. It was because when Sherlock had looked me in the eyes with that icy stare, telling me he had made certain a man was put to death, it hadn't been fear that I felt trickling down my back, like fire ants on my vertebrae.

It had been excitement.

**Sherlock POV**

The sight of Dr. John Watson in my-soon to be _our_- flat was… strange. I'd liked to have simply brushed it off as insignificant or boring but it truly wasn't either; it was the opposite of both.

Even though Mrs. Hudson had opened the door to let us in, I watched John a moment more, fully aware that the good doctor was getting anxious. I knew he wouldn't leave; anyone with half a brain could tell that this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in far too long. There was no denying that knowing this-knowing that it was _I _that was the most exciting thing- left a strange giddiness in me, not unlike the strange and unrealistic vibrating of wings within my diaphragm. Which left me wanting to both frown in indignation and laugh in surprise.

As we climbed the stairs to the flat, myself leaping and John limping, I easily brushed past him. This psychosomatic limp was becoming less interesting by the minute, growing more and more annoying, more infuriating. Annoying because it made him slow, infuriating because I knew it was a crutch that John _shouldn't _have; a stigma to his life which was completely unnecessary and it was _angering_ to me. Finding out _why _would require… more data.

Taking a deep breath and opened the door, I held it for my companion. The anticipation had me excited in a peculiar way, as if seeing John in my home was going to solve some grandiose problem, cure some unfathomable pandemic. He walked in and looked around, taking in my many papers and books cluttered around, though he couldn't possibly know they were mine at this moment in time. Having not come back last night, I didn't think to clean at all… not that I would have. Too time consuming; there is _always_ something more worthy of my time than menial labor. This is probably something I should inform John of, that he will be doing the lion's share of household duties, but I believe even he is capable of deducing_ that _from my mess.

Putting that off till later, I watched the shorter man walking towards the kitchen. As he did so he stated, "Yes, this could be very nice…"

I froze momentarily to take in this sentence. To me, it was already very nice. More importantly, it was practical. There was ample sitting space-perhaps a tad too much with two chairs _and_ the settee- plenty of room for books on the shelves, papers on the tables, chemistry equipment in the kitchen… but obviously something was amiss with John so I watched him intently as I agreed, "Yes, well… Yes, my thoughts precisely."

With that out of the way there wasn't any question about it, John was obviously going to move in. So I began speaking as such, ready to give him permission to begin moving his belongings here. I didn't expect John to also begin speaking, this time about cleaning some rubbish up. It seemed as if I had deduced wrongly about his keenness, something which was surprising to me. It came as a bit of a shock, as I am nearly impossible to surprise. That said, it had been twice now Watson had surprised me; first being when he walked in with Mike Stamford, the second (the second I'll admit to) being now. This peculiar ability of his to catch me off guard and unawares, was novel in a refreshing way. Perhaps further study of _this _aspect of his was also needed…

Having spoken at the same time our eyes were of course drawn together. It was the first time we had made any sort of eye contact since coming into the flat, and I deduced, I _decided_, that that was the reason it had such a sharp effect. Those blasted eyes of his seemed to drill into me as if he was searching tirelessly for my core. It was disarming, and that feeling of disarmament was exasperating; it was _annoying. _I narrowed my eyes slightly as if trying to say, _good luck exploring, many have tried and failed to understand me._

Instead my stare must have seemed challenging; Mr. Watson's eyes mirrored mine, only his shined with the unwavering stare of a champion accepting his mission.

_Hmm… interesting._

Lights awaken in the corner of my mind: ordering me to give him something to go on, make an effort. Social niceties escape me often, but they're hidden in the Palace somewhere. Perhaps swept under a rug but they're _there_. I turn from the still staring man and throw a few things in boxes, picking up a few stray letters and a knife from the table. "Of course I can clean up-" I stab the letters securely onto the mantle of the fireplace with the knife "-a bit." I turn back to John expectantly.

He just sighs and points to the skull which sits in a corner above the fireplace, telling me what it is. Well, _yes obviously._ I refrain from informing him that his declaration was completely unnecessary. Then I remember that it is not a normal thing for individuals to keep human skulls lying about. I explain to him that the lone cranium was a friend. Well, I say friend. He was actually a crazed, pompous man who kept his daughter hidden away in a basement to keep her from marrying. Old case, before the time of John, but that was beside the point. My attempt at humour was obviously lost on John, and thankfully Mrs. Hudson began chatting to him. I went back to cleaning-relieving myself of my coat and scarf- and was thankful I had turned my back on the pair when Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to mention there being a second bedroom to John. She, of course, thought me to be a homosexual much like everyone else. Rightfully so, but that wasn't important. John had yet to realize she had thought _him_ to be one as well; obviously he… well, as of yet _that_ hard to deduce.

Suppressing the genuine chuckle when John declared huffily we would indeed be needing two bedrooms was certainly a task. Mrs. Hudson went off into the kitchen and when she reprimanded me for my mess, I looked up and saw John staring at me confusedly. I decide now is not the time to talk about sexuality. Perhaps _never_ was more convenient.

I continue to busy myself with the aimless shuffling of things-the whole business of cleaning is just absurd, moving things from where they had a purpose to a place where they have no use just so they can be moved back to wherever they were previously again at some later date-as Mrs. Hudson moves into the kitchen. I pick up my laptop and put it on the table, trying to think of more ways to engage John in conversation. The fluctuations between pianissimo or fortissimo-the tones and the pulses- in his voiceare strangely soothing. I was about to search "how to engage in small talk," when John did the work for me.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," he states.

Looking at him, sitting in the red armchair which had come with the room it's… encouraging, normal, _calming. _Which were all strange. I can't help asking him, " anything interesting?" in response to this he smirked and states that he found my website. A satisfied smile graced my lips as I asked him what he thought. He narrowed his eyes, cocking his head to the side [signs of suspicion, doubt]. _Well then…_ I could feel my smile fall as I gave him a questioning look. He reiterated the facts I had given on said site [software designers are indeed identifiable by their ties, as easily as airline pilots can be by their left thumbs] and, taking the questioning tone as a challenge, _I_ retold the _easily_ identifiable signs of war as well as the _obvious_ drinking habits of his brother [sister] on his phone. Of course he asked me, "How?"

I gave the Doctor a well-deserved glare and ignored his stupid question. If he was going to question my unquestionable intelligence he won't be allowed explanation of it. At least not yet. I turned back to the computer and deleted the google search for 'small talk,' and I had the mind to replace it with a search for 'how to successfully impress a stupid man'.

Hearing Mrs. Hudson speaking at me in the background, I wasn't registering at the foremost of my attention… something about those brilliant serial murders being "right up my street,"… I moved towards the window as the familiar red and blue lights, barreled desperately down the street, casting a joyous glow on the bricks of the building besides ours… no, Mrs. Hudson. Not just _three _serial suicides…

"Four."


	5. The First Short' or 'Flirting'

**A/N: So, here is a short interlude chapter. I wanted to showcase the smaller scene of the cab ride instead of going straight to the crime scene (which I won't actually be rewriting, I'm not going to bore you all**_** that **_**much) and kind of skim the bigger part (Lestrade coming over to beg the genius…). Just John POV, the next interlude will be just Sherlock POV. This is John letting himself go, just floating in this new feeling, if only for a few minutes. The first step to losing yourself to love is testing the waters. Or I guess it is for him and me! These short things are wonderfully addictive, I've been writing a lot actually. Be watching my profile, I will publish a few 'flash' fictions sometime in the near future! I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, I giggle and smile every time I read it. I'm a hopeless romantic and I revel in it,**

**Special thanks to all my followers especially TheReturned, starrysummernights and iamjohnlocked18 for their wonderful support and reviews! Also, this story is beta'd by the lovely breathing is over-rated!**

**Warning: Fluff. Angst and swearing and flirting; steamy John! Happy sighs. Disclaimer: I do not… own Sherlock. I do… own lots of unfulfilled wishes.**

"_The only time it feels good sinking_

_Is when I'm sinking fast and deep for you._

_You caught me as I was winking._

_Now I think my winking days are through."_

_-Could it be Another Change by The Samples_

**Chapter Interlude: 'The First Short' or 'Flirting'**

**John POV**

I had about a million things to ask this man, yet none of it would leave my mouth. He had ignored most of my questions in the past and, even in the confined space of a cab, there was no more reason for him to answer now than before. So, instead, I watched him. Well, I stole glances at him. His damn cheekbones stuck out like blades, stretching his pale skin; skin which reflected the dim orange street lights. The curly dark brown mop he wore framed his face, too long to be practical but, not long enough to be really off-putting. If you looked one moment, you would see the boyishly handsome face of a movie star. Turn back again and, if he had that certain look in his eyes or had stuck his chin up in defiance, he seemed like some sort of deadly secret agent. It was… exasperatingly attractive. The turns in my stomach when I looked too close or too long-or both- were unsettling; but that _was _Sherlock Holmes. Unsettling.

The man in question was between looking out the window and working on his phone. Finally he lowers the device and, I should have known it, guesses I have questions. _Deduces it_, I suppose. That's what he would insist upon, I'm sure. Asking him where we're going, I assume correctly he knows I'm not dense enough to mean the address. I already heard that one. Sherlock was confronted with a Detective Inspector who told him about a fourth murder where a note was left. He gave the address as Lauriston Gardens in Brixton, so I already knew that. The DI seems a bit exasperated when the younger man begins complaining about some forensics investigator named Anderson, but in the end Sherlock does indeed agree to go.

He had left in a dash of excitement and glee, leaving me in the chair, in the flat we came here to look at; a flat he had already moved into. One whose land lady unassumingly patronizes me, causing me to act like a git and shout at her. "Damn my leg!" I swear I had practically heard her small heels click on the floor as she jumped. Immediately I regretted the outburst and I apologized. She offered to make me that cuppa, though when I asked for biscuits she tuttted, "Not your house keeper"… Picking up the paper I look over the top story. Serial suicides, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade…

"You're a doctor…"

Surprised, I turned around to see Sherlock standing at the door of the living room. He was still wearing the coat and blue scarf, looking at me expectantly.

"…In fact you were an Army Doctor."

I got up and gave him confirmation, not bothering to ask him _again_ how he could identify me as a doctor. Looking at me intently, he begins moving closer asking, "Any good?"

Watching his eyes on mine, I don't hesitate in the slightest as I replied, "_Very _good." He was still moving, like a bloody black cat stalking towards me.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths," he didn't ask it as a question, more like an observation. Could he see it all in just my eyes? Am I that damaged, that transparent? "Bit of trouble too, I bet," he adds airily.

Looking down as he gets right in front of me, I can feel eyes piercing right into me like hooks. That thrill runs through me, the one I'm getting too used to feeling. Always when he's close… "Of course, yes. Enough for a life. Far too much."

I can feel the heat of his body and it's going straight down to my gut, heating my insides as it slides through me. He wears no cologne I can distinguish but he smells faintly of ash and something… unknown. Something dangerous. My breathing is still steady, I hope, but my heart beat is definitely not. His closeness makes me want to burst, the tension is like a mad dog I have to work to restrain, to keep chained up.

His face is a blank canvas, all stone seriousness except for those exciting, icy eyes. "Want to see some more?"

I can't help it; I can't stop it; I can't hold it back. The words come out in a rush, akin to the rushing marathon going on in all my pulse points: "_Oh_ _God yes."_

Now, in the taxi cab, when he says crime scene, I know I shouldn't really be surprised. A murder, a DI at the door, what else could it really be? So I move on asking, "Who are you? What do you do?"

_Of course_ he doesn't outright answer the question. He could never bring himself to throw away that façade he wears so well… He responds by asking _my _thoughts on it. Well, I can already tell he's not some citizen that just happens to know things, but he can't be a private detective…police don't go to private detectives. He tells me rather smugly, "I'm a _consulting_ detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." Damn, he's good at that. Feeling superior, looking it. I know he's certainly not amateur from the way he's already held himself but I want to mess with him, muss him up and have him falling off that high and mighty pedestal he sits atop prettily…

But I am disappointed-no, really I am _extremely_ impressed- with, after an offended look from Sherlock, I end up with my foot not only in my mouth but practically down my bloody throat. He's… God he's _absolutely_ brilliant. It's breathtaking, really. To see the gears going in his head, his eyes don't move over me this time as he reevaluates his observations of me, this time in greater detail. No, they stay straight on mine. Now a distinctive blue and silver, they look like they hide a war behind them like a curtain hiding the star of the show. His lips moved fast, eloquent as ever yet factual and almost lecturing. As if I were a student in Uni. and he was the professor. _I wonder what it'd be like to have him shoved up against a desk or a chalkboard, all that prim and proper breaking down into… _The surprise of his next statement had me coming out of my little fantasy fast, not leaving any time to scold myself for it. "You were right." Something in the tone makes me believe it is not in fact a compliment.

"_I_ was right? Right about what?"

He looks at me and I swear his voice has dropped a whole another octave-if that's even possible- as he states, "the police don't consult amateurs." I break his gaze and look straight ahead as Sherlock turns to the window. My mind… it's been cleaned out, apparently. I draw a blank as to what I should say to this genius beside me. So I say what I had been thinking the whole time:

"That… was amazing."

Sherlock looks at me as if I had just admitted to being the queen of England. It takes him a few seconds to reply and I can feel pride bubbling up in me. _I have left this man-this bloody gorgeous, unlikely charming, exceedingly intelligent man- speechless_. At the same time I am concerned… he's left this way over such a small compliment, surely something he heard a lot?

He finally asks me, "do you think so?" like some kid looking for confirmation he's done well. Yet again, the detective has confused the _hell _out of me.

"Of _course _it was. It was extraordinary; it was _quite_ extraordinary."

Sherlock looks pleased with himself, giving a small smile. I swear I could see him blush, the tinge of pink stood out like a stop-sign on his cheeks; something you see every day at every corner but when you don't expect it you can't help but be surprised. Although they didn't make me want to stop; they made me want to move closer. "That's not what people normally say…" he continued.

_Well, fuck 'em, _I think privately, and I was almost serious. Sure, he was bloody unlikable but he truly was amazing… I can't help but ask though, "what do people normally say?"

Sherlock looks at me with a humorous smirk. "'Piss off!'"

I grin and lean into the window, looking out as the buildings pass by, the people on the sidewalks… we're heading to a crime scene, Sherlock Holmes and I. Yet he had blushed, I could feel my cheeks getting hot, and I swear to god we had just _flirted_. Instead of stuffing these feelings away as I had been doing all day, I let them linger. They felt _light._ Not angering or frustrating at all, just… pleasing. I smiled to myself and looked into the reflection of the younger man; I swear he was smiling too.


	6. Not a Date?

**A/N: I didn't want to keep all you lovely people who read this humble tale waiting any longer so I am uploading this UNBETA'D. You have been warned. I don't think I'm all that bad on my own, I've read over this at least 8 times but I'm not as confident in my grammar and all-around flow as I am after **_**breathing is over-rated**_** reads it (because she is lovely and so very helpful!). I will update this as soon as I get the edited version in :)**

**Anywho, thanks to you amazing individuals who have followed and even went as far as to favorite my humble story. Special thanks to TheReturned for all her lovely reviews; starrysummernights for reading my never-ending rambles and actually replying to them; and the guest reviewer who made me beam and giggle this morning. Flirting John is super cute, I know and love him.  
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**Please review, they make me smile!**

**Disclaimer: No. Still do not own Sherlock.**

"_I'll only stay if you stay. I'll only go if you go._

_What're we doin' anyway?_

_No, no I don't even know these people. But I don't mind a little unfamiliarity,_

_While I politely let go_

_Why are you waiting? What are you expecting to see?_

_I'll only stay if you stay…"_

_ by The Jungle Giants_

**Chapter V: Not… a Date**

**Sherlock POV**

Something about making John uncomfortable or confused resulted in a strangely pleasing feeling. Usually it is so terribly tedious and just plain _boring _when a person in my company cannot grasp the painfully obvious but with John, he _processes _the painfully obvious well enough; yes, he _sees_ but he does not (sadly) _observe_. Though there is hope for him yet; his brain isn't as dim as others I've regrettably encountered… He is surprising. Which is certainly novel. Still, this means I do not yet understand this man, and nothing can be left misunderstood. Admitting something is beyond your understanding is equivocal to admitting you are not intelligent enough to grasp it fully. That is not something I will _ever_ be comfortable admitting.

Nonetheless, my… _interest_ in the good Doctor could also be due in part to the fact he is immune to the apparent repulsiveness of my intellect. It is actually quite the contrary; he gives me _praise_ and makes me want more. It's cumbersome, but not something I am particularly averse to. In fact I rather enjoy it… Definitely something to analyze further but only after the work is completed. One puzzle at a time… John hasn't murdered four people either, like this serial killer we're currently watching for. That does indeed carry some weight as to _priority_.

My companion takes his seat on the right hand side of me, back to the window which faces twenty-two Northumberland Street. Of course, I sit watching the street; only the street, not John. Angelo soon comes over to carry out his pleasantries and of course making known to me, as he does each time I frequent his establishment, that anything on the menu is free of charge. For me and… _my date_. _Hm_.

Obviously John is surprised by this assumption. I don't see why, perhaps I should be offended… Am I an embarrassment? I hadn't brought any dates here before but then again I haven't 'dated' in the past. I dabbled in University with acquaintances but never did I subject myself to things as _suffocatingly_ mundane as dates or movies or-I shudder inwardly- _brunches_. Any interaction made on my part was simply as a means-to-an-end. That _'end'_ being purely physical pleasure; definitely did not involve the social niceties or etiquettes which absorb everyday citizens' lives.

John tries to inform the restaurateur that he is not in fact my date but Angelo ignores him, as do I. He looks away from Angelo worried as the large balding man describes the everlasting gratitude he holds for me… or something to that effect. The large man _does_ fail to mention he did not in fact murder anyone and after John looks at me- wide eyes filled with both confusion and expectance- I explain this to my supposed date offhandedly. I try to do my best ignoring the small smile John gives Angelo when the latter explains he would go to prison for me- which he did indeed do- but I can't help feeling a small twinge of pride at it. Angelo tells the jumper-clad doctor he will be getting a candle for the table. More romantic he says… I'm glad John can't see how my smile has grown into a smirk as he tries telling Angelo, yet again, he is _not_ my date. Quite loud and unconvincingly, I might add.

I move the menu out of my way and continue to look out into the street; searching for any suspicious activity outside the address which I had John _invite_ the killer to. I do tell John he may as well eat; no doubt we will be here awhile yet… Angelo comes back with the candle and John looks up from his menu to give a begrudging "thanks," to which Angelo gives an amusing thumbs up accompanied by a wink. With a tight lipped smile John goes back to his browsing. He leaves me to scan the area as he chooses his food [fettuccini alfredo], tells his order to the waiter the waiter [Billy is obviously gay, smiles at John a_ little_ too much; beginning to get on my nerves], then receives his food [dull]. But that's all subtext. All my attention, _all_ of it, is on that street… Though I do send Billy what I know is an intimidating stare as he delivers John his food. The young man turns a nice shade of crimson and quickly turns on his heel, shuffling briskly away. It does not in fact take a genius to deduce he did indeed receive the intended message.

John is completely unaware of Billy and I's lovely wordless chat, and goes on to eating his boring food. I resume watching across the street, drumming my fingers atop the table. As tedious as waiting is, it is made a tad less so due to the company… I can sit in silence devoting a majority of my attention to the most first and foremost task- the case- while directing the rest towards the second task: John. The silence is lovely and rests upon us like a wonderful symphony of brain waves and firing neurons. I'm slowly getting comfortable and almost completely at ease, my eyes on the street… Till the man across the table begins trying to _talk_ to me.

**John POV**

I swear this is _not_ a date. No matter how many people seem to believe it.

If it _really is_, this is by far the strangest date I have ever been on. With the strangest person I've ever met. Scratch that, the strangest _man_ I've ever met. There's a first, John Hamish Watson on a maybe-probably-can't be-could-be-date with a man. What a blog update this'll be (and there actually _have_ been updates as of late): 'This just in, I think I might be attracted to my completely mad, gorgeous, insufferable new flat-mate. Cheers!' Ella and Harry would both have a field-day and the mates would have a good laugh.

There isn't a single idea in my head of what to say. I don't know what to say to this enigma of a man, so I try to stick to what seemed like a prime topic: one that I thought I could even one-up this man in…

"So, did you go to University?"

I had a smile on as I said it. I'm actually quite proud of my degrees, the time and effort I put into getting them. I _like_ to think I'm humble but I worked my _bloody_ arse off. Unfortunately, Sherlock's head whipped around like I had screamed bloody wolf then laughed in his face when he came running. Obviously he had taken the question as an insult to his intelligence; obviously, that is something I should avoid doing in the future. God, when the younger man looked at me in that moment he had daggers laced with anger and offense in those eyes. I could _feel_ the tiny wounds. Choking a bit on my food, I nodded a bit then cleared my throat. "Alright, fine. Sorry. So, what did you study then?"

After staring me down for a few more long seconds, not trusting me I suppose, he smirked. The expression in his icy gaze went from being filled with those sharp objects to some light almost verging on humorous. Before I could ask anything more, he turned to study the street out the window once more. Then he practically purred in his deep baritone, "_chemistry..._"

I stared at his lean frame (he still stared intently out the window, not moving) with wide eyes before bringing the fork-which had stopped in midair-to my mouth. I swallowed hard and heavy. How this man made something as boring to me as chemistry sound like an erotic promise… there was no such thing as _safe _with Sherlock Holmes.

"…as well as forensic science, anatomy, criminal justice, physics and psychology," all the purr and promise which lined the previous three-syllables were gone from his voice, replaced by the familiar posh and arrogance.

Blinking slowly, I swallowed hard on both my pride and my pasta. It was obvious that studying my food was a much better waste of my time than trying to make small talk with this man. I was beginning to notice that Sherlock Holmes, for all his brains, didn't really have a _clue _for normalcy. Suddenly he did the surprising thing and joined in, leaving me no escape route. Or at least, he joined in as best he could.

"And you studied medicine, successfully earning a bachelor's degree in biology. Then you went on to medical school where you completed your education as a doctor only to use your knowledge overseas months later. It _seems_ we have enough knowledge between the two of us we could successfully start our own _school_," he said dryly. His gaze slides to me again; while his face was sober and serious I swear his eyes were darkly teasing.

Looking down again I gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. His eyes were narrowed on me before they turned to look back out the window. I came to the conclusion that instead of just _staring_ at my food, stuffing my mouth with it so I lacked the ability to _speak _was an _infinitely_ better way to avoid embarrassment at the hands of this frustrating yet magnetic genius.

I tried, I really had but it only took a few minutes for me to grow bored enough, brave enough, to try actually _talking_ to the consulting detective again. In a last ditch effort for some kind of _successful_ social interaction with this man, I tried the safest topic I could think of: one that didn't actually involve me at all. "People don't have arch-enemies," I stated.

Sherlock had avoided the question of just who kidnapped me before, but I have a right to know. Even if he makes me feel like I don't, even if getting information out of him is the same as interrogating a damn hostage. Earlier he had seemed so oblivious to everything, lying around on the couch with his long fingers steepled under his chin, looking all mysterious and fuckable and… and all that… _hm_.

Anyways, the man who had basically forced me into some shady black car was… fucking _annoying_, honestly. There was nothing I wanted to do more than knock him one, then go back to the flat. His damn air mystery was a thousand times worse than Sherlock, with his little secret book, his showy suit and his bloody 'insight' into my life. So I find Sherlock a tad exciting, doesn't mean I'm some git who actually _misses_ the war. I killed people, for Christ's sake! That's not something I want to do again… Not unless I absolutely _have_ to. It was a bit weird, I'll admit, how he pointed out my hand… Something Sherlock would probably say…

The dark-haired man takes a moment to register that, _yes_; I am_ trying_ to talk again.

"I'm sorry?" He looks back at me, bringing me out of my angry state of recollection.

"In real life. There _are_ no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen," I looked over to him expectantly but all the arrogant sod does is brush me off _again_.

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull," he oozes with disinterest, still studying out the window.

"So who did I meet then?"

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" he's mocking me now, I know it; he seems to bite off the last words, giving me some kind of look. I take it back; he and my damned abductor were the same level of annoying.

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like…" I look down as the next thing to pop into my head rolls off my tongue unfiltered, "... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."

Sherlock doesn't read into it, saying carelessly, "Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."

Before I can stop my stupidly curious self I ask, "You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

He continues to look out the window as he states, "Girlfriend? No, not really my area…"

"Mm," though I'm ready to leave the conversation at that I then realize-with a large bit of _something_ bubbling in my stomach- what he was actually saying there. "Oh, right…" Now, I _swear_ I would have left it at that. But it was simple curiosity (if this murderous habit killed the cat _I_ must be the one with nine-fucking-lives), the inquisitive mind of a soldier or a doctor, _just curiosity_ which forced the next question out of my mouth:

"D'you have a boyfriend?"

**Sherlock POV**

I turn my head sharply at John. As I do so he tries to catch himself-I assume he thinks I'm offended in some way- telling me it's fine. Well, of course it's all _fine_, I'm already aware of that. John smiles in a way I'm sure is supposed to seem reassuring but it only succeeds in making me uneasy. Narrowing my eyes I try and search his face for some kind of motive to his line of questioning. His expression holds nothing to contrast the sincerity in his smile, albeit holds a bit of awkwardness in the raised eyebrows. It seems forced, perhaps he feels uncomfortable? Again, I'm not sure why he should be the one uncomfortable; _he's_ the one asking stupid questions…

"So you've got a boyfriend then?" He asks

"No," I answer quickly so I can gauge his reaction, still trying to deduce why he would even be asking. He looks at me a split-second more before his smile becomes more fixed, more awkward, and he begins babbling like he's trying to right some wrong, "Right. Okay. You're unattached… Like me." I continue to study his movements as he looks at me expectantly. Perhaps he _deduces_ that I'm definitely _not_ going to contribute to the conversation; he looks down at his plate awkwardly. "Fine," he says. Now he's really uncomfortable, and I have to suppress an amused grin. The man is a puzzle, for sure, but his attempts at social niceties are certainly entertaining. "Good," with that he clears his throat and shuffles his muscled frame, bringing the spectacle to an end.

I look at him a few seconds longer, still suspicious of his motives. The shorter man has gone back to eating his dull food, bringing his honestly one-sided conversation to an end. Turning back to the street, even as I search for this unknown killer my attention was diverted towards John. Why was he asking about relationships, specifically romantic relations? Was it Angelo's comment from before, about him being my date? Why had he left the conversation off stating that my being unattached was 'good'?

Oh… _Oh_. Realization came to me startlingly: Perhaps it wasn't simple social niceties John was attempting but a different type of social interaction… What _was_ it; I had no use for the boring terminology; most had been deleted throughout my life. I searched rapidly till I found it-

_Flirting [flirt] verb (used without object): _

_To court triflingly or act amorously without serious intentions; play at love; coquet._

_to trifle or toy, as with an idea _

-but was that it? It sounded wrong for many different reasons. The first being if this was John's idea of _flirting_ it's a tad bit awkward for my taste. Not that I had much experience in flirting… the friendly exchange between John and myself during that taxi ride to Lauriston Gardens earlier had left me a bit too… _giddy_. For some odd reason-perhaps it was John's compliments- it had left me with a hint of heat in my cheeks. Certainly that experience and this instance weren't the same things as _trifling _or _playing at_, it didn't feel that way… Though feelings could not be trusted, I had learned that in the past; the senses were _always_ the more worthy of faith.

How to explain to him without offense… this is something that is not entirely in my comfort zone, a situation I suppose I'll have to experiment in further… "John, um..." Gathering my thoughts, I tell him rather quickly, "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any-"

John had interrupted me before I could finish my sentence. "-thing _right now_."

He cut me off with a "No," giving an exaggerated shake of his head (again, I feel some slight offence to his exceedingly _intense_ denial). This time he is overtly anxious, avoiding eye contact. Clearing his throat, he reiterates; "No, I'm not asking. _No_." He fixes his gaze on me trying yet again to convoy some sort of sincerity. All I can see is panic, and my eyes never fail me. I never _guess_, I only _observe_ and _deduce_ and at the moment I am observing John Watson's deep blue eyes shin with both embarrassment and panic in this blasted candle-light. From this I can deduce he is uncomfortable with… _something_. Further analysis to follow; I store this data away for later in the doctors ever growing occupancy within the mind-palace.

He goes on to say that it's_ all fine _and while the sentence is screaming to be analyzed I decide that now it not the time. I need to focus, I need to try and remember John is _not_ the most important thing at the moment. The fact I need convincing of this is _uncomfortable_ and _frustrating_ and _distracting _and… Staring at John for a second more I decided that for now, the sincerity in his concern is all I need to satisfy my longing to know more, to understand more of this man. For now...

I nod at John, who was still looking at me. He probably expected me to say _something_, so I reply "Good… Thank you."

Looking back out the window and-even though I _can_ see John making some strange and unattractive face from the corner of my eye- finally, _finally_ I see it. I see something to grasp onto. The thrill was sparking something in my being; rushing through my veins like fire. It was a devouring energy coursing through my body like the stimulants I had sworn off. Ah, the chase. It had begun.

"Look across the street. Taxi…"


	7. The Second Short' or 'Falling'

**A/N: So this is the second short, again un-beta'd so feel free to point out ANY grammatical errors, any misuse of words or just any issues in general. If you can find none then yay! Please leave a review! Also, fel free to check out my other story **_**Fluffy Clouds and Little Birds**_**, which is updated up to twice a day!**

**Thanks to **_**starrysummernights**_** and **_**TheReturned**_** for their constant support and lovely reviews; they're both absolutely**_** brilliant **_**writers so go forth and read their work, it's worth every second!**

**This chapter is only Sherlock POV, written in stream-of-consciousness style! I tried to blend his letting go with his scientific mind so any facts I have wrong let me know; it's all Wikipedia's fault! Enjoy :)**

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><p>"<em>Pity, take pity on me.<em>

_'Cause I'm not half the man that I should be._

_Always turning to run, from the people I should not be afraid of._

_And darling, you should know…_

_It's like love is a lesson that I can't learn._

_I make the same mistakes at each familiar turn."_

_-Diamond on a Tether by Death Cab for Cutie_

**Chapter Interlude: 'The Second Short' or 'Falling'**

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><p><strong>Sherlock POV<strong>

We rushed into 221B Baker Street, a flood a torrent a tsunami of pants and gasps our faces tinted with a light shade of red from the labour of running the streets of London like madmen; perhaps it was more like merry-men on some kind of high; adrenaline junkies whose feet (our feet) had taken on a mind of their own, they couldn't be stopped (I didn't want us to stop); their hearts (our hearts) were pumping blood at a rate faster than the normal 120/80 blood pressure of a healthy human being (I never wanted it to stop) perhaps if I died of a heart attack right now it_ wouldn't_ be the dullest thing in the world. I want more.

He hangs his coat on one of the hooks next to the door the same hooks which hold Mrs. Hudson's purple coat and the blue jacket Mrs. Turner keeps here- I still can't seem to fathom _why_ that woman would insist on leaving that horribly coloured _thing_ here, probably sentiment (yes it is sentiment, obviously). John is saying that _that_ was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done but really that is a _complete_ miscalculation, he had invaded Afghanistan, he had allowed himself to get shot, he had attended that frighteningly _boring _alcoholics meeting, he had agreed to meet me at St. Bart's, he's going to move into the flat with me, _he is attracted to me_. But only the first part of that list comes rolling off my tongue, and with that John is again giggling like a wonderfully free, delighted child- how can_ I _make this man so _elated,_ it is beyond my comprehension; all I can comprehend is the _hunger_ for more of this magnetic happiness, like I'm photosynthesizing his laughter; it is becoming a form of sustenance, this is probably a bit not good but I can't help it; he's feeding me _joy_ and I want _more_, nearly everyone is repulsed by me, how can he be the one that _isn't_? I need to investigate this further I need data I want to explore all possibilities but right now all I want to _relish _this feeling of high, the one I can also feel radiating from under Johns insanely thick and preposterously patterned jumper. I want more

Laughter is not in fact contagious but it has been studied profusely, in many studies they found that there is some sort of 'detector' in the brain which responds to laughter by triggering other neural circuits in the brain, triggering a response with even more laughter; usually my neurons are _completely_ stoic, utterly frozen in social situations but now they are firing away as John's laughter switches on my own, he seems to _pull_ something from me out of me I can't quite understand, I don't want to _deduce_ this I just want to _revel_ in it, in him, in this developing _whatever_. Fifteen muscles move when you laugh; mine are slow and grinding from lack of proper usage but they're doing their best, they're doing _all_ they can and they're doing _more_ than I thought they could all because of _him_. My abdominal muscles are seizing up and it should be an _annoying_ type of pain but it isn't; it is especially _glorious_, it is wholeheartedly invited, it is like John has brushed away cobwebs left by spiders I didn't know were crawling inside me; my heart is pumping like it had been in its own state of hibernation. Maybe it had been; now it was waking up for this man. I want more.

While the sounds hanging in the air were laughs, giggles, gasps and sighs the atmosphere-Nitrogen, Oxygen, Argon, Carbon Dioxide, Neon, Methane, Helium, etc.- had grown stuffy with electricity. It was on the verge of becoming suffocating with the proximity between John and myself. His smile was to blame; it _had_ to be that smile, the one plastered on his face since we stopped that taxi unknowingly, it was the first truly joyful expression I had seen on the good doctor's face and it lit him up like a flame lights a strip of Magnesium, I told myself that _that_ must be why I reflected his joy, _that's_ why I had begun leaning towards the shorter man. _That_ _bloody smile_ was the reason for my brain leaving me at the mercy of emotion (though my mind is always of course _there_; out-of-body experiences are not really possible they're simply a state of consciousness induced through stimulation of the posterior part of the right superior temporal gyrus). Leaning against that wall at the bottom of the stairs Johns face was awash with excitement and glee, it shouldn't have been _endearing _it should have_ annoyed _me but it didn't it drew me in like the unavoidable attraction between a proton and an electron I can feel John's body heat next to mine, so close though we're not touching; I can't move I don't _want_ to move yet the floor beneath my feet seems to be tilting to the right causing _me_ to tilt towards _him_, my internal balance at a loss. There are approximately 243 types of tobacco ash I have studied but there are so many beautiful, so many _fascinating _variants of color and depth in John's eyes, in his whole self; I want to explore, examine, and_ know_ every fathom in those depths, I'm watching him in his joyful bubble and he is so unaware of my falling…

_Falling?_

Suddenly, there is someone at the door. Left alone to think I watch Johns small frame as he goes to answer the knocks [it is Angelo; I had already contacted him]. This man had caused me to get lost in myself, something I had been able to keep well under _control_ for years. He had the power to turn off the protective shields I had encased my emotions in and I now suspect those damnable_ feelings_ were the things now causing my heart to beat faster, causing my nerves to burn at the edges

Looking forward to the wall opposite me, it seemed to be imposing a lecture upon me; "he could be the making of you or he could be the breaking of you, Sherlock." Blowing out a breath, I ignore the warning. It is _me_ with John; it was _I _who made him erupt into giggles and laughter;_ I'm_ what has made him forget his ailments; the _only _one that makes him feel excited and elated and ridiculously _alive._

It is only _me _who is with John right now… and I want _more_.


End file.
